


It's a Mile from Here to Glory

by ivyfic



Series: After School Special [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-02
Updated: 2007-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:58:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyfic/pseuds/ivyfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>John found it when he was doing laundry. When John dug into the bottom of Dean's duffel to get the last of the dirty socks that had been sitting in there, probably, since the last time John had caved and done the laundry, he found a roll of bills. Tens and twenties, mostly, held together with a black binder clip. It was close to five hundred dollars.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Mile from Here to Glory

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think there are enough apologies in the world for bringing rentboy fic into existence. So I'll just say it's [](http://trakkie.livejournal.com/profile)[**trakkie**](http://trakkie.livejournal.com/) 's fault for telling me that "even a bad hooker story is a good hooker story."

John found it when he was doing laundry. It was like he'd been sucked through a vortex into an after-school special—the kind he never bothered about with Dean and Sammy. A shocked parent discovers a condom or a bag of marijuana or cigarettes in his child's room! Ominous music. Then a freeze frame and voice-over saying the parent should have talked to their child first.

When John dug into the bottom of Dean's duffel to get the last of the dirty socks that had been sitting in there, probably, since the last time John had caved and done the laundry, he found a roll of bills. Tens and twenties, mostly, held together with a black binder clip. It was close to five hundred dollars.

His first thought was that Dean had stolen it from him, but he would have noticed if any of the emergency cash disappeared.

His second thought was that Dean had stolen it from someone else. He was a smart kid. He could figure out how to work a fence.

His third thought was that Dean was selling drugs. Sioux Falls, South Dakota, wasn't exactly a thriving metropolis, but it had its bad sections. They were living in one of them. John wanted to be able to stick around till the end of the school year—he always tried for that, despite what Sammy thought—and that meant living on very little money for the near future. So the apartment he'd taken was on the third floor of a public housing building. The walls were thin but the plumbing and electricity worked. It wasn't exactly where he'd want to raise kids, but it wasn't like it was New York City. His boys could handle themselves. They'd be fine.

John had noticed the types that hung out on the street corners around their building. Dean wasn't stupid enough to be using—he'd know how dangerous that could be on a hunt. But he might be dealing. How else would he have five hundred dollars in his duffel bag?

John stood there for a bit, with a sock so dirty it had crusted over in one hand and a wad of sweaty-smelling bills in the other. It just didn't make sense. How did Dean get the money and why did he feel the need to hide it?

He wished he'd watched some of those after-school specials now because he didn't know what he was going to say to Dean. But those things always ended up in tears and hugs. John knew his boy. That wasn't going to happen. He wished he had Mary to talk to about this.

He heard a key in the lock of the apartment. John startled and shoved the money back into the duffel bag, then shoved the dirty laundry back in as well. He chucked it back into the closet where he'd found it just as Sammy stepped in, school bag on one shoulder.

"What are you doing in Dean's room?" he asked. The middle school got out an hour before the high school. John still had some time to come up with a strategy.

"Your brother's a slob," John said, trying to pass it off as his usual gruffness.

Sammy just shrugged and headed into the kitchen, slamming his book bag onto the table with a thud. John swore that kid was getting scoliosis from hauling around all those books on one shoulder, but Sammy staunchly refused to use both straps. Apparently that just wasn't what people did in Sioux Falls.

John smiled to himself as Sammy started pulling books out of his bag. He never needed to prompt that one about his studies. Dean, on the other hand, was going through a "cool" phase, and cool kids apparently flunked three courses. He'd seen Dean helping Sammy with his homework, though. The boy wasn't stupid, just stubborn.

Which brought him back to the money. Something was going on with his son.

~*~

By the time Dean got home, John had decided not to confront him. Not yet. John decided to watch him instead. He'd been doing some pick-up work at the local garage, but he let that slide so he could follow Dean to school.

The next morning he drank his coffee over the paper, as usual, while Dean pulled down the corn flakes for him and Sammy. John was trying to remember if Dean normally looked this tired when they hadn't had a hunt. He had to admit he didn't know. It was probably just a teenage thing.

John waved goodbye and grabbed his keys, pretending that he was heading to the garage. He drove the car a couple of blocks away and parked it, walking back. Dean and Sammy emerged from the apartment building and John followed as Dean walked Sammy to school. It took Dean a mile out of his way and got him to the high school almost a half an hour early, but he'd volunteered for the job as soon as they moved here.

John spent the whole day in the shadows across from the school, watching his son go from class to gym to lunch. He couldn't see him during the lessons, but any closer and he'd tip his hand. John had spent years honing his ability to observe, but he didn't see anything unusual. No shady encounters with kids on the edge of the track, no transactions. He didn't look like he was dealing to his classmates. It just looked like he had a new girlfriend. John was reassured but no closer to figuring it out.

John stood in an alleyway, watching his son's classmates. Were there warning signs he had missed? Dean wasn't a normal teenager, he was a lot stronger than that. John knew he put more on Dean's shoulders than he should, but Dean handled it; he always had. Would John have even noticed if he started skipping classes or hanging with a bad crowd? Dean's grades had fallen this past semester, but that was because they'd changed schools twice since the fall, wasn't it?

Dean emerged from the front of the school when the bell rang, sun shining off blond hair that had gone too long without a haircut. He was surrounded by a press of people, laughing with them, one arm slung over the shoulders of a girl. He was dressed like them, denim jacket with sleeves rolled up, flannel, jeans. To John's eyes he looked like a normal, perfectly well-adjusted teenager. Hell, he looked like top man on the totem pole—his boy had always been good at making new friends.

Maybe he was over-reacting. It wasn't unusual for a boy his age to want some money of his own. Maybe he'd gotten a part-time job and was squirreling away the proceeds. John was ashamed to realize that with the amount of time he'd been gone lately, he wouldn't even know if his son had a job. He could ask Sammy, but the boys were loyal to each other to a fault. Dean could be hustling pool, but John had put a strict injunction on that while Dean was still in school. Besides, Dean didn't have the stakes to start a hustle, and wasn't stupid enough to try it without.

And there was just something wrong about the money: the small bills, the smell. John had learned to trust his gut when hunting and his gut was warning him now.

John emerged from his thoughts and realized he had to get moving if he was going to beat his son home. He looked at his watch and realized that Sammy had already been home alone for forty-five minutes. Crap. Sammy wasn't a child anymore, John knew that, but he still always tried to be back at the apartment before Sammy got home since Dean couldn't be there.

He pulled the Impala up to the curb just as Dean was walking past him. Dean gave him a bit of a look, but didn't say anything. John walked up the stairs to the third floor behind him. "So," John started. "Anything new at school lately?"

Dean gave him another look. "I'm pretty sure my social science teacher is a zombie. I bet Sammy could find her address if you wanted to go behead her later."

"Dean, you know what I said about joking—"

"Right, right," Dean rolled his eyes as he unlocked the front door.

"Dean!" Sammy called from the kitchen.

"How'd the test go?" Dean asked, heading down the hall.

"It's tomorrow, jerk," Sammy replied. Test? John thought. He didn't know Sammy had one.

"Bitch," Dean said, ruffling his brother's hair.

"Dean—" John said warningly as Sammy tried to duck away from his brother's hand.

Dean grabbed a soda from the fridge and looked at John, leaning against the doorframe, as if to ask what he was doing impinging on this scene of domesticity. It was true—when John was home he was usually nose-deep in research for a case—but that didn't mean he couldn't just spend time with his children. "Dean, you get a part-time job recently?" This made not only Dean but Sammy look at him like he had three heads.

"Why would you ask that?" Dean asked.

"Well, I know kids your age like to have some spending money…for clothes and CDs and things," John didn't know what switch had flipped when Dean went to high school that made it impossible for the two of them to have a normal conversation.

"'Kids my age?' Dad, kids my age have social security numbers and live in one place for more than two months at a time." Dean slouched into one of the seats at the table and rifled through his bag. He pulled out a magazine on classic automobiles.

"I'm sure you could…deliver papers or something." John gave it another try.

"Right," Dean said, flipping through the magazine. It appeared to be filled with pictures of women in very little clothing draped over the classic automobiles. John would protest Dean looking at this in front of Sammy if he didn't think Dean would show it to him later anyway. "Look, if you're wondering if I'm going to start ditching hunting to flip burgers, don't. I know: 'my first responsibility is to this family.'" John could recognize a bit of a lecture he'd given Dean being thrown back at him.

"OK," John said. "Are you sure there's nothing I should know about?"

"I'm not ditching Sammy and you for some stupid job. Quit being all weird about it," Dean grouched.

"Dean's got a girlfriend!" Sammy piped up with glee.

"Shut up!" Dean hissed through his teeth.

"Dean-y and Carrie sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S—"

"Shutupshutshutup!"

John wasn't that surprised when Dean tackled Sammy sideways out of his chair. He smiled and shook his head. "Watch out for the furniture," John warned. There wasn't much space in the kitchen, but then, there wasn't always on a hunt. Sammy seemed to be doing a pretty good job blocking Dean's attempts to pin him, despite the size difference.

John didn't think he could get a conversation restarted at this point so he retreated to the living room and pulled out his journal. He'd known it couldn't be a part-time job, but had hoped that Dean would come out and say it was anyway. It would just have been easier that way.

~*~

John kept following Dean, but nothing happened. Dean got up, went to school, came home, did his homework, terrorized his brother, went to bed.

But on Friday night, sometime after eleven, when both boys should have been sound asleep, he heard the window open in Dean's room. It was a quiet noise—he wouldn't have heard it at all if his whole body hadn't been hyper-aware for days now. Dean was going out the fire escape.

John checked on Sammy before quietly heading out the front door of the apartment. His youngest was sound asleep, twisted up in his sheets with his feet sticking off the bottom of the bed.

When John hit the street, he could just see Dean turning the corner at the end of the block. His shoulders were hunched against the cold, but he was only wearing a T-shirt. John followed him for another four blocks until Dean stopped under a streetlight on a desolate corner. John waited until Dean was looking the other way, then slipped into the shadows across the street.

Dean leaned against the pole and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. John could see him visibly making his stance look relaxed and at ease, though with the nip of winter still in the air, he must have had goose bumps. The streetlight illuminated a stretch of pale skin on his stomach—he was outgrowing his clothes again. John would be happy when this growth spurt stopped and he didn't have to buy Dean new clothes every three months.

The minutes passed and Dean remained there, casually looking up and down the road at the occasionally passing cars. John glowered. He was becoming more and more sure that it was drugs. Had to be—street corner in the middle of the night? What the fuck did Dean think he was doing? John was going to take his hide clean off when they got back to the apartment. But he wanted to be sure.

It was almost midnight when a car slowed down and stopped in front of Dean. Dean stepped forward and leaned towards the passenger window. John couldn't see what he was doing, just the shadow of the driver in the boxy silver-colored Dodge. After a minute Dean stepped back. The car drove up the block, parked, and the driver walked back towards Dean. The man looked almost John's age: clean-cut, respectable, a bit of a paunch under his trench coat. Dean was smiling at him, cocking his hip out as he approached. They walked together into the alleyway just beyond the light from the streetlamp.

John could see the shadowy figures in the alley—Dean must have wanted to hand over the drugs out of plain sight. But there was something not quite right about this transaction. The man followed too closely behind Dean, then turned to lean against the wall of the alley. Dean pressed up against him. The man's hands were doing something John couldn't see between their bodies.

It honestly didn't occur to John what was happening until he saw Dean drop to his knees and pull a condom out of his back pocket.

John didn't remember crossing the street. He felt a rage so white-hot he could barely process what was happening, what he was doing. That man was… _with his son_. The man was just pulling down his zipper, too focused on Dean, on his knees in front of him, to notice his surroundings, when John got to them.

John grabbed Dean by the back of his shirt and threw him backwards. He didn't turn to see how he'd landed. All he could see was the man, the comically shocked, doughy white face disappearing under his fists.

He could hear Dean yelling at him to stop, panic making his voice crack like it hadn't in two years. He could hear his own bellows at the man, words he would never say in front of his children spewing out of his mouth. The man didn't say anything, not after the first couple blows knocked him to the ground. John kept punching.

Dean must have been trying to pull him back when John caught him on a backswing, elbow connecting with his cheekbone with a crack, sending him sprawling onto the ground. There was silence after that, just the sound of his fists on the pervert's face, and that's what cut through his anger, made him stop punching and look at his son. Dean hadn't gotten up from where he had fallen. He was looking at his father with sheer terror. Part of John didn't understand that—he'd saved him, dammit, Dean should be grateful—but part of him felt the anger arcing from the man lying unconscious in the alley to Dean. This wasn't some random attack, it wasn't like Dean was a victim, here. Dean had brought this man to this alley, taken his money. _And he had done it before_.

John leaned over his son, gripped him by the scruff of his neck and yanked him to his feet. Dean tried to turn and look at the man lying there but couldn't with John propelling him forward. "Is he…" he started to ask.

"You don't want to say anything to me right now," John said. He could feel the anger in his words, the focused fury he had only ever used before on a hunt. He was holding Dean's neck, squeezing it too hard. He knew he was leaving bruises, but he couldn't make himself let go. He wanted to ask so many things of his son— _how long?_ and _how many?_ —but one thing he wanted to ask above all: _why? Why? Why?_ Over and over until something Dean said could clear away the horror of what he'd just seen.

But John was afraid that if his son tried to explain, that white-hot fury John felt would turn on Dean and he'd hit him like he'd hit that man. That feeling terrified John more than anything he'd ever faced.

~*~

John threw the door to the apartment open so hard, the doorknob dented the plaster. "Sammy!" he yelled. He still held Dean at the base of his neck, gripping him like a wolf would a pup. "Sammy!"

Sammy stumbled out of his room rubbing his eyes. His hair stood up on one side in an enormous cowlick. He took one look at John and Dean and dropped his hands. "What happened? Were you hunting? Did you get it? Why didn't you take me?" His voice turned into a whine at the end. John knew he'd just woken his son from a sound sleep and any petulance should be forgivable, but the string of questions grated on his nerves.

"Grab your stuff. If it's not in the car in five minutes, we're leaving it behind." He finally let go of Dean, pushed him toward his room.

"But Dad," Sammy drew out the word, making him sound five all over again. "I have a test tomorrow."

John pointed a shaking finger at Sammy. "I am not in the mood. Get your stuff."

"Yes, sir," Sammy grumbled, then turned back to his open door.

John strode into his bedroom and slammed the door. He hauled his duffel out from under the bed, still mostly packed. They'd had enough quick exits over the years that he never really unpacked anything. Everything he needed to survive, and the few things he just needed to keep, stayed in a bag under the bed, ready to grab on a moment's notice.

Staring at the bag John couldn't think of what to do next. They needed to leave, that much was clear. John had almost beaten a man to death—hell, he might have succeeded. He hadn't stopped to check. There would be cops and questions he couldn't answer. The best thing was to clear out before anyone started looking.

But it was more than that. He felt an overwhelming need to take Dean away, as if physical distance could change anything that had happened. He felt like he was running from a bomb, but he was ground zero. If he stayed around his boys he didn't know what would happen.

He had never hit his sons. _Never_. Not when they misbehaved, not when they trained. But he'd hit Dean tonight, laid him out flat with a blow that was sure to leave a black eye, and he wanted to hit him again.

He shook himself out of his daze and carried his bag to the front hall. Dean and Sammy were still packing. It was past five minutes and he felt the itching need to leave, but he'd allow them this little time to take what they needed from yet another life they were leaving behind. When Dean came out of his room, carrying his bag, John mutely handed him an ice pack, wrapped in a dish towel from the kitchen. Sammy emerged from his room a minute later, dragging his bag behind him across the floor.

John turned and walked out of their apartment for the last time. He didn't bother to check if Sammy closed the door behind them.

~*~

John resisted the urge to throw Dean into the backseat of the Impala. Dean usually rode shotgun, claimed it as his right as elder. John didn't think it would be a good idea to be that close to him right now.

They loaded their bags into the trunk. Sammy stood shivering on the sidewalk; he'd just thrown his coat on over his pajamas, bare ankles showing he'd forgotten his socks again. "Dad, I…" Dean started to say.

John didn't know how that sentence was going to end, but he didn't want to hear it. He rounded on his son. "I don't want to hear you, I don't want to see you. You sit down and shut up until I tell you otherwise."

He didn't wait for the "yes, sir" before opening the driver's side door. Sammy was glancing warily between the two of them, sensing that this was not the time for any of his usual antics. He climbed into the backseat with his brother. John saw him skooch across the seat in the rear-view mirror until he could lean his head on Dean's shoulder. Normally this would have sparked a round of bickering and hair-pulling. Dean just put his arm around Sammy's shoulders and drew his brother closer.

~*~

John didn't think he blinked once on the entire drive to Blue Earth, Minnesota. The road disappeared in a haze in front of him. He was focusing all his thought on not thinking anything at all, pushing all his questions aside. If he could just hold on long enough, Pastor Jim would know what to do.

They pulled up to Jim's rectory at a little past two. The boys drowsily pulled their bags out of the trunk. John wanted to grab hold of Dean again, shake him like a rag doll, but Dean was wisely staying out of reach.

Jim opened the door before John had finished pounding on it. He was tying a bathrobe around his waist, looking tired but ready to handle anything. Visits from old friends in the middle of the night didn't usually mean good things.

"John, what happened?" Jim asked, eyeing Dean's purpling cheek. John belatedly realized that his knuckles were cracked and covered in dried blood. He tried to get the words out, but he couldn't say it, not in front of his youngest.

"Sammy," he said, trying to temper his tone, "you go on up to bed. We'll be staying here tonight." John and the boys didn't come here often, but Jim always had a guest room ready for them. Dean turned to follow his brother but John stopped him. "Not you."

Jim stepped in, blocking John from Dean's fearful stare. "Dean, why don't you wait in my room." Dean just nodded and disappeared down the hall.

"John, you better tell me what's going on."

John took off towards the kitchen. He just needed some coffee. "John," Jim called, following after him.

When John reached the kitchen, he stopped, hands resting on the edge of the sink. "John," Jim said when John gave no signs of replying. "Dean's shiner—did you give that to him?"

John squeezed his eyes shut in shame and nodded his head. "It was an accident," John said, but he wasn't sure if that was the truth.

"OK," Jim said. John could hear him switching to the soothing tones of a minister with one of his flock. "What happened?"

"My son," John started. "Dean." He swallowed. "My son is a whore."

"What?"

John turned around, focusing his anger on Jim. "He's a whore. A hooker. A faggot. A—"

"John, don't jump to any conclusions, here. We're talking about _Dean_ —"

"I saw him!" John shouted. "I saw him take a man into an alley and… He's got a roll of bills, Jim. All the money he's earned on his knees."

"John, you need to calm down." Jim extended his hands in placation.

"Calm down?" John slammed his palm into the counter top. "I saw my son take money to suck the dick of some pervert old enough to be his father. Don't tell me to calm down."

"Have you talked to Dean about this?"

John shook his head. "I couldn't. I wanted to hit him again. Jim, I wanted to hurt my boy. How could this happen?" John was starting to shake. He felt that explosion he knew was coming hitting him now. He'd failed. That's what this was, right? Punishment? He'd put too much on Dean. If he'd been a better father, Dean wouldn't have done this…thing.

"John," Jim said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I need you to stay here and calm down. OK? I'm going to talk to Dean."

John nodded his head and sank into a chair.

~*~

Jim opened the door to his bedroom cautiously. Dean was sitting on his bed, pushed back against the wall, holding his knees up to his chest. He'd straightened the bedclothes Jim had left rumpled when he'd heard the Impala drive up the gravel driveway, but he hadn't turned on any lights. The only thing illuminating the room was Jim's reading lamp, casting a pale halo on the pillow beside Dean's knee. He looked young and impossibly frightened.

"Let me take that," Jim said, extending his hand for the ice pack which had melted entirely. He took it to the kitchen. John sat at the table, his head in his hands. He didn't look up as Jim pulled his own ice pack out of the freezer and grabbed a fresh wash towel to wrap it in.

He returned the bedroom and sat on the foot of the bed. Dean took the offered ice pack and pressed it to his cheek but didn't look at him. Jim waited.

"Dad told you?" Dean finally asked. Jim nodded. Dean stuck out his chin, chasing his fear away with defiance. "What did he say?"

"I think you know." Jim said quietly. He waited in silence again, then continued. "Is it true?"

Dean hesitated, then nodded, quickly disguising the nod by rubbing his nose across the back of his knuckles.

"Did you always use a condom?" Jim asked.

Dean whipped his head toward him, obviously not expecting that question. "Aren't you supposed to condemn me to hell or something?"

Jim smiled softly. "They call it the oldest profession for a reason. One of Jesus' closest followers was a prostitute."

"Whatever," Dean said, his face hardening at the mention of Jesus.

Jim dropped his gaze. He'd forgotten what a hard time this one had with religion. He couldn't blame him, but it made his job more difficult. He finally looked back at Dean. "You didn't answer my question."

"I'm not an idiot," Dean snapped back. When Jim just looked at him, he added, "Yes, OK? Yes, I always used a condom. It's not like it's a big deal." Jim just raised his eyebrows. "It's not like I'm a blushing virgin, or anything. It's just sex."

Jim nodded. "Is that how it felt to you? Just sex?" Dean looked down at the bedspread and started picking at one of the loose fibers. "How many partners have you had?"

"Why do you care? Do you get some sort of sick thrill hearing about it?"

"No, Dean, I just want to make sure you're safe. You need to go to a clinic, get checked out."

Dean grimaced. "Dad would never agree to that."

"He doesn't have to. If I took you, would you go?" Dean thought about it a long moment, then nodded. "How long has this been going on?"

Dean took the ice pack away from his cheek and started fiddling with it.

"John said you had a roll of money."

"He took it?" Dean asked, and Jim could see some desperation there. He understood; what Dean had done to get the money—then to think it had all been for nothing.

"What was the money for? Dean?" Jim watched Dean's face twist up, then his words burst out of him in a gush.

"A friend of mine's dad runs a garage, you know? And he has this old Ford, kind of a beater, but he said he'd sell it to me for $800. And I thought I could, you know, fix it up."

That, more than anything that had happened this night, shocked Jim. _A car?_ He sometimes forgot how stupid teenage boys could be.

"I know how it sounds," Dean continued, "but if I had a car I could help Dad out. I'd be able to go on hunts for him and come back to check up on Sammy or if he's in trouble I could get to him, or if he's away for a while I could take Sammy to school and to practice and stuff."

"Did you ask your dad about this?"

"Yeah. 'I said no, Dean. End of discussion,'" he said in a passable impression of John. "He didn't even listen to my reasons."

"And this was the only solution to the problem?" Dean shrugged and looked at the wall. "Lots of other kids your age want to get cars. Did you ever think of trying to get a job at a local garage?"

"You try and hold down a job when you have to spend five nights a week looking after your little brother and then your dad up and hauls you to a motel in bumfuck and leaves you there for a week. Bosses don't tend to keep paying people who never show up for work," Dean said angrily. "If I had a car, it wouldn't be such a problem. Look, I just needed a little money, OK? And I heard that I could get a lot of money fast. I thought it was no big deal."

"What do you think now?" Jim asked.

Dean shrugged again.

"How long did you plan on continuing to do this?"

"Look, it's not like it's a lifestyle choice. I just needed three hundred and twenty more dollars and then I'd stop. It would only have been a few more weeks. I can get eighty dollars on a good night I just—"

Jim was trying not to do the math. Eighty dollars on a good night: this had been going on for months. "Just what?"

"I can only get twenty bucks for a blowjob, maybe a bit more if they get all octopus hands, but if I could… I could get over a hundred bucks a pop if I just…" Dean made a little gesture with his hand, a blush creeping up his cheeks. "I'd have the car already and Dad would be proud of me, but I just couldn't."

Dozens of johns, Jim's brain was screaming at him. Jim was beginning to feel some of the anger John did—not at Dean exactly, but at what he'd felt he had to make himself do. Dean had probably thought it would be a quick way to some cash when he'd started; no big deal, as he kept insisting. But Jim could clearly see that it _was_ a big deal and somewhere along the way Dean had decided that he had to force himself to continue. He was caught in the cycle now, falling further and further away from his original intentions, hurting himself over and over out of some misplaced belief that he had to finish what he'd started. Jim knew he'd continue falling unless he and John could reach out now to catch him. That was why Dean was speaking to him about this at all. He needed someone to know his secrets; he needed someone to help him. "You tried," Jim said grimly.

Dean nodded. He ducked his head down into his arms and the next words came out muffled. "It hurt too much." He looked up at Jim urgently, as if suddenly afraid of what he'd revealed. "You can't tell my Dad, right? You're a priest, it's under the confessional seal. You can't tell him."

"Dean, I won't tell him anything you don't want me to." Jim wanted to reach out to comfort him but doubted his touch would be welcome. After all, it had been men just like Jim that had been taking advantage of him. Jim let his hand rest on the bedspread between them. "Do you trust me?"

Dean took a shuddering breath. His face was blotchy, his lips pressed white together, but he hadn't let a single tear fall. Jim continued, "It's going to be OK, Dean. Believe me when I tell you that."

Dean swallowed. "Can you get the money back from my Dad? I need it if I'm going to…"

"I'll try, Dean," Jim said. He stood from the bed, hoping that John had calmed down enough now to deal with this rationally. When Jim was almost to the door, Dean spoke again.

"Pastor Jim, will you let me see Sammy? Before they leave?" His voice was small and afraid. Dean was so isolated already, Jim could see how these past few months had isolated him even further.

"Of course," Jim said with a smile, trying to erase the fear he saw in Dean. "Why don't you go on up to bed. You could use some rest." Dean scampered out the door ahead of him, heading up the stairs to the room he always shared with Sammy when they stayed here.

Jim took a moment to rest there, closing his eyes and letting his own feelings, feelings he had worked to hide when speaking with Dean, wash over him. He was angry, yes, with Dean for his choices and with John for not being there for his son. He'd tried to do his best by the Winchesters over the years but he'd always worried that the boys couldn't grow up in an environment like they had and emerge unscathed. He didn't know what else he could have done; any more direct intervention and John would have cut his ties and he'd never have seen any of them again. John loved his sons, Jim knew that, but he also loved the hunt. As he looked now at the toll it was taking, what Jim felt most was sadness.

~*~

John looked up when Jim entered the kitchen. He was obviously waiting for him to say something. Jim crossed to the counter and turned on the coffee maker. If he was going to have this conversation at three in the morning, he was damn well going to have some coffee.

He stood in silence as the coffee perked. The few short hours of sleep he'd had and the look on John Winchester's face made him feel old and weary. Finally John spoke. "You talked to Dean?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well?" When Jim just raised his eyebrows, John continued. "Well, why? Why the hell would he do that?"

"You'll have to ask him that."

John pushed back roughly from the table. "I can't do that. He won't talk to me."

"He won't talk to you or you won't listen?" Jim turned to pour himself and John a cup of coffee, then carried them to the table.

"Just tell me what my son said!"

"I'm a priest, John, whether I'm wearing a collar or a bathrobe. You know I can't do that."

"Dammit, Jim—"

"John," Jim admonished.

"Jim, he's my son. I need to know—I need to know everything that's happened."

"Why, so you can picture every act Dean's done? You saw the money; I think you already have a pretty good idea," Jim calmly took a sip of his coffee.

John squeezed his eyes shut. "When I saw him with that man—I've never been so angry in my life. I started hitting him, I couldn't stop myself. I can't stop seeing the two of them. Jim, just tell me how to fix this."

"Sure," Jim said. "Let me just get my magic wand." John banged his mug on the table like a petulant child. "What, would you like me to find some spell to erase his memory? Or maybe you just want to erase yours."

"That's not fair."

"You want to know why _I_ think Dean did this?" Jim leaned forward. "Because there's something broken in your family and he's having a hard time keeping it together every day. And I think you knew that already, which is why you're focusing all that anger on Dean. If you want to start to fix things, you need to talk to him." John pouted at him. With all the stubble he looked like a surly bear. The man was a stubborn ass sometimes and if he didn't get around it this time he was going to lose his son. "I know you feel all mixed up about this, but frankly, John, I don't give a shit. You're a father. It doesn't matter how you feel. You know what Dean asked me when I left him? He asked if I'd let him see Sammy. You and Sammy are all he has and he thinks that you're going to drive off and leave him here."

John looked hurt. Good. "I would never do that. I love my son."

"Do you?"

"Why would you ask me that?"

"Because he's not so sure. Right now you need to sort yourself out so that when you walk into that room tomorrow morning you can let Dean know that you still love him."

"How can I look at him? Every time I see him, I just see—" John protested.

"John, you need to get over it. Dean's on a bad path right now. Unless something changes, he's going to keep doing these things. I've seen teens like him before; it doesn't end well." Jim could hear Dean's words in his head again: that it was just for a little while, that he would stop. How many times had he heard that before?

"God." John clutched the mug between his hands. He hadn't drunk a single drop, but Jim didn't think he needed any help resisting sleep tonight.

"What he needs right now is your unconditional love and support. I don't care if you have to fake it; if you're not there for him he's going to fall apart."

"But why? Why would he do that?"

"I don't know, John. You need to ask him that." Jim stood from the table and put his mug in the sink. "I'm going to bed. The boys are up in the guest room; you can have the couch." John snorted. "Are you going to be able to do this?"

John stared at the table for a long time, then nodded. "Then you're going to be okay," Jim said.

~*~

John was still sitting at the kitchen table when the sun came up. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep so he didn't even try. He felt washed out by the anger that had raged through him, as if it was a flood that had swept everything inside him away. He still wanted to know why, but he didn't think anything would make him understand. He was trying to do what Jim had asked: put his needs aside and do what Dean needed. He could see that accusing Dean now would just drive him away and that thought terrified him. The thought of either of his sons outside of where he could protect them was a fear always clawing at his gut. He wouldn't make it if he lost either one of them.

He'd put too much on Dean, he thought. Dean was his rock, his shelter. He relied on him entirely. John couldn't remember the last time he'd looked at his son and seen the child he'd been. It was so easy to be fooled by Dean's maturity now. He acted like an adult and John treated him like one. But maybe John needed to remind him that he was still John's son, not just his soldier.

The thoughts had been spinning through his head all night, as he slowly drank the pot of coffee Jim had brewed. His hatred of the nameless man in the alley had bled away leaving only hatred of himself. Jim was right. He was a father. And for the past eleven years he'd been a lousy one.

As the light outside grew, John found himself getting more and more anxious. Dean would be up soon. John went out to the car and grabbed the bag he'd left there in the previous night's confusion. He showered and shaved off a week's worth of stubble. He needed to pull himself together. He didn't think he was ever going to be ready.

By the time he'd finished it was after seven o'clock. There were no signs of movement elsewhere in the house. He tried to sit in the living room and wait but eventually gave up. He'd never been very patient, why start now?

He climbed the stairs slowly, wondering whether he wanted to make noise to give Dean warning or be quiet so he wouldn't wake him, the way he had when Dean had been a baby. He needn't have worried.

He pushed the door to the guest bedroom ajar and saw two lumps together under the quilt of one bed. Dean looked up when he heard the door open and John saw tear tracks on his face. There was fear there, but something else too: resignation. Dean looked at John for a long moment. Looking at Dean now was like looking through a window of the man he would become to the child he still was.

Dean stroked his brother's head, then leaned down to kiss it gently. He carefully crept out of the bed so as not to wake him, then squared his shoulders and walked towards John like a soldier about to face his drill sergeant.

John followed him quietly down to the living room. Dean didn't sit down. He was staring into the middle distance between him and John, eyes unfocused, waiting.

John ran his hands over his face. "I'm sorry," John said. Dean's eyes snapped to his face, confused. "I'm sorry at how I lost my temper. And I'm sorry that you felt you couldn't come to me when you were in trouble."

"I can take care of myself," Dean said.

John felt some of the anger rush back and had to forcibly push it aside. "I thought so, too, Dean. But what I—that's not taking care of yourself. It's hard for me to understand this, son."

Dean twisted his fingers together unconsciously. "I'm sorry, too. I—" Dean blinked. "I'm graduating next year, and after that, I want to still be able to help you out with hunting and with Sammy. I just thought that if I had the money, I could get a car and then you'd have to keep me around. But now, I guess… I guess that doesn't matter."

John felt a lump in his throat. The pain of it made it difficult to breathe. "Is that what this is about? You think that when you graduate I'm going to throw you out?"

"Isn't that what your dad did when you graduated?" Dean asked.

"Dean, I will always need you at my back. This family will always need you. I'm not going to make you leave. You didn't have to win me over."

The fear on Dean's face disappeared. John thought maybe he'd just given Dean what he needed to survive this.

He didn't do it often, but John couldn't have stopped himself if he wanted to. John grabbed Dean in a hug, holding him fiercely. He couldn't gather Dean up like he could when Dean was a child, but he thought maybe Dean still needed to know he had a place in his father's arms.

When he let Dean go, he held out him by his shoulders, looking searchingly into his face. "I won't ever have to speak to you about this again, will I?" John asked.

"No, sir."

~*~

They stayed at Pastor Jim's for a few weeks. They couldn't go back to Sioux Falls—the police were calling it a mugging, but they might still be looking for John—and John needed time to find another place to stay. Sammy didn't complain about missing the end of his school year. He kept looking warily from John to Dean to Jim, as if waiting for the next explosion.

Dean's black eye had healed by the time he told the boys to get their things ready and carry them to the car. If John wanted to, he could pretend that it was a perfectly normal day, leaving for another town just like every time before.

John stood on the stoop and watched Dean and Sammy tussle in the driveway. Jim walked up behind him. "Dean would do anything for this family," John said quietly. "Anything. What am I supposed to do with that?"

Jim squeezed his shoulder briefly. "Don't fuck it up."

**Author's Note:**

> The title is of an [actual after-school special](http://www.tvdvdreviews.com/after78.html) whose plot has nothing at all to do with this story. I have yet to find an after-school special about teenage hookers but I'm sure there's one out there.  
> For anyone curious, you can find photos of [Jensen Ackles as a teenager here.](http://www.jensenacklesfans.com/index.php?option=com_wrapper&Itemid=163) The internet is a wonderful, wonderful thing.  
> Many, many thanks to [](http://trakkie.livejournal.com/profile)[**trakkie**](http://trakkie.livejournal.com/) for the beta and for making me write all my cracked-out plot bunnies.


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